


Strangers

by akatsuki_tsukiyomi (Yumi25Nakashima)



Series: First Blush [46]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Attachment, Background Relationships, Drabble, Established Relationship, F/M, Imagination, Implied Relationships, POV Third Person, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Romance, Strangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28549464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yumi25Nakashima/pseuds/akatsuki_tsukiyomi
Summary: In my dreams, I walk into that restaurant. I am not in my agonizingly dull t-shirt and socks. Sometimes I am in a pantsuit in a deep green, the same colour of the plants that decorate the veranda. Other times I am in a floor-length gown of a golden hue. In my dreams, I am not chained to my reality. In my dreams, I am free. I am friends with this handsome man and this beautiful woman; the old man is my mentor. He is a faceless author in my dreams. I am liberated from my self-doubt and the pressure of the family and friends I have moved away from to pursue my passions. I am living in my ideals where I do not work in a grimy diner. I'm a freelance writer with several best selling novels under my belt.
Relationships: Russia (Hetalia)/Reader
Series: First Blush [46]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2089500
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Strangers

**Author's Note:**

> A drabble about a stranger's point of view of Ivan and you. Note that the narrator is not the reader. I'd say this is pretty platonic. An established relationship is somewhat addressed. I look forward to the insights about this writing style.

I heaved as I arrived on the fifth floor of the skinny apartment building I rented. Why the landlord never got around to fixing the dilapidated elevator is beyond me. That stout elderly man is lucky that though the apartments he rents out are matchboxes rather than living spaces, the building does provide unparalleled views to the beautiful city. With the income I make, I could find another place to live in, give or take a couple of months, but the view from my cramped balcony is something I would miss too dearly.

I pushed myself inside, the hinges of my door creaking as they were disturbed.

I quickly changed into an oversized t-shirt, relieved to have gotten out of the work uniform I had on all day. I stripped down to only underpants underneath the large, thick shirt I donned and comfortable socks that I found lying on my bedroom floor. I don't know if I had previously intended to shoot them into the hamper but I decided to wear them nonetheless.

The kettle, which I had left to boil as I went about tidying up my apartment and myself, soon sang a shrill tune and I pulled it off the stove. I steeped a tea bag of earl grey into the sole mug I kept in my sad kitchenette cupboard. I had always found the tea blend to taste much like perfume, but a lover in the past had loved it so much that I ended up putting up with it and drinking it out of habit.

Even as the night swallowed the sky and vomited stars to litter the darkness, cars strolled down the streets, along with the occasional drunk.

Having first moved into this foreign city, I rented the cheapest apartment I could make do with. The first few nights were horrendous. I could hear the idle chattering of an open tv through the paper-thin walls—or ceiling, sometimes the sound seems to come from all directions that I no longer trust my ears; the city stayed alive even well into the morning—so much so that I could never differentiate the day from the night. Now, I am not so much bothered by the sounds and the lights as I am fascinated by them.

After a fourteen-hour shift at a hole-in-the-wall diner on the opposite side of the city, I have to wait another hour to catch the bus that runs through my street. Ideally, I get out of my dingy workplace just as the clock strikes nine, but the world is far from an ideal place. I stay back for an hour at least, helping clean up the kitchen, the counters, and the tables. Lately, even the busboy had stopped showing up. Not that I'm complaining too much. Though there is more work to be done, a part of his pay ends up with me because of his absence. With the additional hour that it takes to put the already run-down eatery back into order, I wait half an hour at the least to get on the last bus of the night.

I haven't had the misfortune of having to walk back home yet after missing the last bus, but I'm not up for that kind of adventure.

I sighed as I felt my eyes sting and droop from fatigue. I made my way towards my bedroom's large window that let to the little balcony, that was really only the platform of the fire escape, and slid it open. I manage to squeeze myself out of it and my socked feet hit the rusty metal flooring of the balcony. On the building right beside my apartment, a little restaurant stayed open until two in the morning. At first, I hated the idea of such an establishment being so close. It was annoying enough that the neighbours were night owls and I credited a lot of my lost sleep to them, but then there was the idle chatter, the clinking of glasses, and the bustling of servers to worry about just five floors down from the more lavishly-decorated building right next to mine.

Now, as I realised that my sleep schedule had transitioned from the inadequate six hours from right when I get home until five in the morning when I have to scuttle out of bed and get to work to a measly four hours, I found the idle chatter, the clinking of glasses, the bustling of servers, and the unexpected clamour from my neighbours calming and soothing. To my wide-awake yet tired mind, the noises served as a company as I nursed myself to sleep every night.

Usually, I'd pour a cheap bottle of wine into my mug or enjoy a cup of steaming hot tea and sleeping pills later in the night to force myself to finally lay my body to rest.

In the mornings, I trudge around like a zombie and in the afternoons all I want is to get home, get under my covers and sleep the day away. But at night, I do a complete 180 and sleep evades me like the plague. For some reason or other, I cannot sleep until after the clock strikes midnight.

The only reason I'm still staying here is that my lease has yet to end, the pay is surprisingly alright at the diner, and I've fallen hopelessly in love with this city. The love that has blossomed inside me has inspired me to do what I came here to do. To write—to create the next chapters of my life on my own and without anyone's influence. Slowly but surely, inspiration comes to me. I've got a shoebox full of receipts and tissue paper that I've messily scribbled my thoughts into. In my crappy ten-year-old laptop, I've drafted lengthy documents. Soon, my moving-away, my savings, my struggles, my sacrifices—they will make sense to me and the people around me.

My favourite pastime in these not-so-lonely nights is to look down upon the restaurant that I have a clear view from where I stood as I sipped on my drink of choice and leant against the metal railings of my fire escape balcony. In the veranda of the dining area, roofed with wooden beams where plants hung from, I watched as the sole elderly man dined by himself in the corner, as the handsome and beautiful couple took their time talking to each other as they enjoyed their meal, and as the unexpected midnight stranger strolls into the restaurant to have a meal by him or herself.

I only knew of the three frequent patrons of the establishment. The old man, and the couple. I often wondered if the old man had once hung around the table where he sat with his wife if he had one. Sometimes, I like to think that he had. I like to think that he keeps coming there to enjoy a late meal just so he could watch the young couple enjoy theirs—reminiscing his youth with his wife who had faded from his life. Other times I like to think that he had none. He was simply a lonely man looking for some company in the presence of others, much like I am, watching these strangers from the balcony that overlooked them.

The young couple, the tall man with a firm build and beige-looking blonde hair and the slender woman. Tonight, he donned a chocolate brown suit. I've never seen him without his ridiculously large scarf. Tonight, the woman, his belle, wore an evening gown the colour of the moon. Her hair was put up in an elegant bun.

I always wondered why these two liked to come to that small restaurant, always at midnight. Were they secret lovers or were they simply holding up a tradition only the two of them would understand? I wondered at some point if they were merely friends or even if they were siblings. But the way they moved and talked with one another was nothing like that of friends or family.

I could be wrong, but I am certain right now that they are lovers. They seemed to be the same age as me.

In my dreams, I walk into that restaurant. I am not in my agonizingly dull t-shirt and socks. Sometimes I am in a pantsuit in a deep green, the same colour of the plants that decorate the veranda. Other times I am in a floor-length gown of a golden hue. In my dreams, I am not chained to my reality. In my dreams, I am free. I am friends with this handsome man and this beautiful woman; the old man is my mentor. He is a faceless author in my dreams. I am liberated from my self-doubt and the pressure of the family and friends I have moved away from to pursue my passions. I am living in my ideals where I do not work in a grimy diner. I'm a freelance writer with several best selling novels under my belt.

I sipped my tea as I continued overseeing their midnight lives. The old man finished first, as he always did. From how high up I am, I cannot tell if he had been watching the couple as I had been watching him. He raises a hand to ask for the bill.

The young man is holding the woman's hand in his. He presses his lips against her knuckles as he always does. She lets out a melodious giggle, reaching my ears. I can never catch their conversations, but I can make out what I like to think about is their voices. He sounds amicable, a high tenor is what I like to imagine him to sound like up close. She sounds charming, the way her drawled-out sentences dissipate into the air before they can reach me—I figure I'd just be as smitten with her as he is if I'd met her in person.

I watch the old man leave, making his way to his vintage car to drive down the road and out of my sight. The couple does not notice his departure. They are lost in their wonder.

\---

It is autumn. I feel the springs of my old mattress dig into my back and I sit up abruptly, irritated at the discomfort it caused me. The only thing left unpacked is my mattress and a pillow. I didn't even bother spreading a sheet over it.

I've decided to move back with my parents. Perhaps my dreams of being a novelist were only dreams after all—far off fantasies that I can never attain.

I think back to the fun I've had in this city—in this apartment.

I remember the restaurant. I remember the old man and the young couple. I remember how the elderly male had stopped coming in the spring of this year. As the flowers started blooming once more, the lack of his presence sent a winter chill through me. The restaurant did not seem as captivating anymore. The couple continued meeting for their ritualistic midnight meals. I have not watched them since I realised that the old man was most likely never going to return to that corner seat.

In the morning as I walked to the bus stop to get to work, I plucked a flower from one of the hanging plants outside. I did not think they were real before—they looked too beautiful and pristine to not have been fake. But they were real. I held the flower in my hand, cold and moist from the morning dew, and walked over to the corner table and placed it on where he used to sit, always.

That was as close as I ever got to that restaurant. I'd like to thank him for giving me things to imagine in my loneliness. I'd like to thank him for keeping me company.

After that, I never glanced at it. I never thought to go out into my balcony.

I continued to sit on my mattress and looked out of the window. The silver moon reminded me of the woman's dress. I crawled out of bed and unlocked my window. I managed to squeeze myself out of it and into my balcony, just as I had done all those months ago.

I looked down to see no one in the corner seat. No old man. My gaze shifted to where he usually faced and only saw a head of beige-looking blonde hair. His cream scarf wrapped around his neck and fell over his tan coat. Across from him, there was no woman.

I wondered how long he had been going back to that restaurant alone. Where had she gone? Did she, like me, move away because she was only in the city for a short amount of time—to chase her dream? Did she find what she was looking for in him? Did he? Was their parting bitter or sweet, or both? I'd like to ask him. I'd like to come down, sit on the empty seat across from him and tell him how many nights I've watched him and her. I'd like to tell him how their love made sense to me, even if I didn't understand love, to begin with.

In front of him was a glass bottle of a clear liquid and a small glass that he was sipping from. In the middle of the table lay a full bowl of a rich, thick, meaty soup. It sat untouched by the man.

Before I go, perhaps I should pluck another flower. I have another seat to put it onto, another memory of a stranger I want to keep remembering.

**Author's Note:**

> Work 3 that I am genuinely proud of and satisfied with.
> 
> This was originally published in Wattpad on Aug 2, 2020.


End file.
